


The Moistening

by Anonymous



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, Age gap relationship, Arthas is 19-20 here dont @ me, Dom/sub, Dominant Uther, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Modern AU, Omorashi, Religion mentioned/implied, Submissive Arthas, Under-negotiated Kink, Unplanned Subspace, Watersports, handjob, pisskink, teacher/student relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29957259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Arthas goes to Uther's place to study.PLEASE READ TAGS THIS IS IMPORTANT I AM WARNING YOU.
Relationships: Uther the Lightbringer/Arthas Menethil
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Anonymous





	The Moistening

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I can and also I do what I want. 
> 
> You better read the tags or you're going to have a VERY bad time.

It was a battle of wills, it always was with him, and Arthas kept finding himself in these situations even though he _knew_ that Uther would never lose.

Uther’s kitchen was small, and old fashioned. It was attached to the parsonage on school campus, and though Uther didn’t have much say in the kind of kitchen he might have wanted, Arthas thought he would have picked something like this anyway, if he did. Arthas was familiar with the details, with the terracotta floor tiles, the antique porcelain sink, and even the view of the garden nestled between the house, and the library. The smell of lavender wafted through the open window. The sound of students playing Saturday sport carried from across the football pitch to the west. When Arthas checked the time at the bottom corner of his laptop screen, he noted that it was already four in the afternoon.

This was where Arthas spent most of his weekends, since he had graduated. Uther had agreed to supervise his study on Saturdays, because not only did he have experience with the task, he had known the Menethil family since before Arthas was even born. Arthas was never particularly good with expressing attachment, or admitting when he felt a sense of fondness, but Uther was easily the person he trusted the most with the future of hid education. Uther knew better than anyone that Arthas had always been less scholarly than others his age. He had correctly predicted that upon starting college, he would be on the backfoot since day one. Though Arthas was lucky his dad had influence over the admissions board, (and indeed, if he were not principal at the collegiate then it was likely Arthas would have never even finished his senior year in high school), he knew very well that he had only gotten thus far in life because he had Uther at his disposal. The man’s intelligence, and competence, and patience, was extremely reassuring.

Usually.

Not always.

He could be prone to off days.

Unfortunately, it was beginning to seem like today was one of those days.

Arthas could tell that Uther was _finally_ beginning to get frustrated. They had been sat here for most of an entire day now, Uther marking exams while Arthas tried to annotate three weeks' worth of class readings, and every time Arthas found himself stressed, or distracted, he would huff and pour himself a drink from the plunger of cold coffee Uther had sat between them when they first settled in. More than once, Uther’s eyes would flicker up to fix on him, the downturn at the edges of his mouth conveying a distinct impatience. They both very well knew that Arthas should have finished his readings hours ago, and Arthas wasn’t sure what other things Uther probably had to do, but he suspected they were of more interest than sitting in silence and watching him flounder while also refusing point blank to ask for help. Arthas was far too stubborn to admit that he was having a lot of difficulty with this. He would much rather simply allow the day to drag on endlessly, and bear the growing weight of Uther’s patience wearing thinner, and soon enough Arthas realized that the golden light of the evening began to take on the rosy hue of dusk. Around five thirty, when he had finished two out of three of his readings and annotated them satisfactorily, Arthas noticed his hands were shaking as he rustled the pages of the articles. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast that morning, and decided it would be best for him to stop drinking the coffee for now.

Arthas didn’t even like plunger coffee. He preferred his hot drinks to be milky, and overwhelmingly sweet.

The problem with this decision, of course, was that without the aid of caffeine, Arthas found it even _harder_ to focus on his work. The harder it was for him to focus on his work, the more irritable he got. Soon, both he _and_ Uther were sat in their seats glowering, and not talking, and as much as Arthas would have liked to obstinately remain where he was seated, he was starting to be mindful of a looming pressure in his belly. It wasn’t painful, but it was verging on uncomfortable. He registered what it meant without so much as a blink.

Arthas needed to use the bathroom. Fairly soon, if at all possible. It was a habit so normal that he barely even thought about it, and so with a defeated sigh he announced this news to Uther, pushed his laptop away, and made to leave.

Uther cut him off with an emphatic knock on the table.

“You’re not allowed to go until you’re done with your readings,” He said, and Arthas was so shocked by the tone of his voice that he dropped back into his seat and stared at him, brows furrowed.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Uther said, reaching for the last article, which was twenty-six pages long and half read. “If it’s easier, I can dictate this and you can take notes?”

Arthas thought that did sound easier, actually, but it still took him a moment to recover from being spoken to like a naughty child. He flushed, embarrassed for a reason he couldn’t even quantify, and scowled as he reached to draw his laptop close to him again.

Uther had a clear, precise reading voice, pitched by decades of teaching experience. In spite of this, and in spite of his periodic pauses to glance suspiciously at Arthas across the table, Arthas still found it difficult to keep his attention on what he was hearing. His mind kept drifting back to the tightness in his guts, to the urge to stand up and dash to the bathroom, and he crossed and uncrossed his legs impatiently under the table while Uther droned. When his typing hesitated for longer than a few seconds, Uther paused in the middle of a sentence. He glared at him sternly over the top of the paper.

“Arthas! Pay attention!”

Being chastised spurred a small flare of indignance. He retorted quickly, before he could catch himself.

“Or what? Are you going to punish me? Tell my father?”

He regretted it almost immediately.

Uther gave him a long, stony look from across the table. Arthas felt like a brick had been dropped into his stomach. Uther had always been a disciplinarian type, but unlike most of the other teachers he had never once used violence or aggression to get his point across. Usually, a look was enough to do it. A steely glare, a firm grip on the shoulder that conveyed he _could_ break an arm without breaking a sweat, if he wanted to. This was the strategy he used now, eyes drilling Arthas’ face long and hard, before heaving a terse sigh and reaching for the plunger in the middle of the table. He poured another mug of coffee. His eyes were so dark, nearly the same color as the coffee in the cup, and just as robust. Arthas sucked a breath through his teeth, when Uther pushed the full mug towards him, across the table.

“Drink.”

He said lightly. Arthas grit his teeth.

“I need to piss, sir. I’d rather not.”

Oops.

Uther’s lips thinned behind his moustache at the sound of that title. It was a verbal slip on Arthas’ part, a behavior honed by years of habit, and he was ashamed to have repeated It now because since his graduation, Uther had told him countless times to call him by his proper name. Uther nudged the mug closer, and this time when he spoke it was in a deeper, even more commanding timbre.

“ _Drink._ ”

God.

God.

Arthas knew he was an adult. Knew he didn’t need to be afraid of the big scary priest, like he was when he was a child who had never seen a man so large and so serious in all his life. He even knew that Uther would never strike him, no matter how firmly Arthas resisted his orders, and that even though he was brisk and serious Uther was a kind man who genuinely did believe Arthas was capable of this – If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be wasting his time here, now.

So why was it that Arthas felt so compelled to obey, fully aware that there would be no real consequence if he didn’t?

Arthas drunk.

He tried to return his attention to his note taking. Uther resumed reading his article aloud.

Tragically, irrespective of his best efforts, Arthas soon found himself distracted once again. The sensation of needing to piss was becoming almost torturous, and for some reason Arthas was unable to tear his eyes away from the clock in bottom right-hand corner of his screen. He watched the minutes pass, counting them slowly, measuring them against the gravity building inside his pelvis. The sensation had long since devolved, a discomfort so severe that Arthas had to tense his muscles and curl his toes to contain it. His hands shook as he lost track of the sentence he was typing. Uther did not pause in his reading again, not even for even a second.

“Please sir,” Arthas beseeched him, once ten more minutes had passed there were still five pages of reading left to go. His voice was embarrassingly thin, and strained by the effort of controlling his bladder. “can I go and _fucking_ piss?”

“No! Not until you finish your _fucking_ report!”

Uther had never sworn at him before. Never even raised his voice, either. Arthas’ skin prickled. His blood turned cold. Sweat beaded on the back of his hands as he stared at him across the table, and Arthas thought quite inexplicably that Uther really was dreadfully handsome even when he was annoyed. Or was that _because_ he was annoyed? Was it because his irritation set a glint like amber in the depths of his eyes? Was it because the angular set of his jaw, the way his hair was rumpled from where he had dragged his hands through it in exasperation, made him look rugged and strong and incredibly provocative? Uther’s hair had been deep auburn, once, but now the front was white like snow. His beard was beginning to fade in colour, and tone. Somehow, though, Arthas thought he still looked like the same Uther who had scolded him for cheating off another students paper, when he was just seven years old.

“Sir,” Arthas breathed, feeling much the same way now as he did all those years ago. His face was on fire, and his whole lower body quivered with tension. “Please, it hurts. I need to go.”

Uther growled and jerked to his feet. The chair screeched loudly across the terracotta tiles. The pressure in Arthas’ belly surged, his constitution teetering, and then it receded again under the force of every last scrap of willpower Arthas had. Uther grabbed the coffee mug, and rounded the table. He seized Arthas by the jaw, and jerked his chin up so they could look eye to eye.

_Fuck._

Arthas gasped. His cock was pounding, but it was unclear if this was because he needed to go, or because Uther’s rough grip, the thumb pressing hard against the side of his cheek, tapped something primal in his soul. Uther pushed the coffee mug to his mouth, the porcelain knocked sharply against Arthas’ teeth even through the pad of his lips. Arthas winced, expression pulling into a grimace, and then Uther was making him drink and the coffee spilled down his chin and into his mouth and he spluttered, and he choked. His whole body trembled, like a guitar string plucked, and Uther hissed lowly. He moved his spare hand to grip Arthas’ hair, and yanked his head back. He set the mug down again on the edge of the table. A shockingly tender touch brushed Arthas’s cheek, then, and Arthas felt his heart flutter. His breath catching. A low humming ring began to echo in his ears, and all over his skin, a cascade of shivers, spreading and morphing and enveloping everything in a creeping, coiling euphoria.

“Caffeine.” Uther told him, and his voice sounded like it was carried across a great distance, on a cold breeze. “Will help you focus.”

Arthas’ own chair scraped against the floor, as Uther nudged it out from under the table with his foot. Arthas didn’t resist the movement, too busy gripping the edge of his seat. Uther’s eyes flickered down to Arthas’ cock, to the slight bulge in the front of his washed out chinos. This was demeaning, this was mortifying. Not only was he too stupid to do his work by himself, felt like he was too stupid to be able to do his work with _help_ , and now Uther was holding him in stasis expecting him to either bust a kidney, or finish what he had started. A fist of panic gripped Arthas’ heart. He clenched down his muscles in his core as best he could, and a sob tore from him. Uther’s thumb shifted to press hard against his chin - so hard he could feel it ache in his teeth.

“Are you going to focus for me now, boy?”

“Yessir,” he whimpered, voice shaking as much as his hands were as they gripped the wooden underside of the seat. “Yessir, Yes, yes…”

He didn’t register that he was begging, was barely cognizant of anything outside of the tremendous power required not to humiliate himself further. Uther hummed, as though he didn’t believe that.

“You still seem distracted,” He said calmly. “Is it really that bad.”

Arthas thought he might have died for a moment, when he felt a shadow pass over him like a bird overhead. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, there was only empty space where Uther had stood. The man in question had moved to kneel right in front of him, in the narrow gap between his legs. A hand drifted over his hip, and came to rest against his navel almost tentatively. When Arthas didn’t tell him to stop, it began to press gently against his belly. He groaned.

“ _Sir,_ ”

“What? Are you going to piss yourself? Are you that desperate to get out of doing this work?”

Arthas shook his head, even though he knew the battle was lost and now, Uther was simply reveling in the victory. His breathing was coming in shaking gasps. His cock felt so heavy he thought it was making him lightheaded. Why was he getting hard like this? He felt helpless.

Uther pressed his stomach again. Arthas twisted in his seat uselessly, forgetting for a moment that he was not bound, he was not trapped, and he was not even at risk of being clouted, if he just got up and flung himself to the bathroom. Uther might be rough, a habit forged from years handling unruly boys, but Arthas trusted him. Somehow, though, Arthas still felt locked in place, and he couldn’t stop another wracked sob from tearing out of his chest. Uther’s gaze lighted on his face again, drinking in the desperation painted there. His shoulders heaved into a heavy sigh.

“Do it then,” He commanded. “Since you’re going to insist on being impatient.”

Arthas didn’t want it to, he _really_ didn’t want it to, but the instruction split his resolve asunder like a hideous, magical word. A knot untied between his legs, the pressure was alleviated in a hot, ebbing tide, but relief was painful too at first, and God. How monstrous. The relief was firmly yolked to his indignity, and under all the layers of horror and self-disgust Arthas still felt in that moment that he was taking the very first breath of his life.

_Blissful, really…_

The heat of his piss spread over the front of his pants like a garden in full bloom. It stuck his underwear to his balls, trickled down his legs, and began to pool in the seat he was currently sitting in. Uther watched with a grim satisfaction, his expression alight with a fire Arthas didn’t recognize. As Arthas pissed himself, he felt tears welling in his eyes. The awfulness of it made the back of his mouth taste metallic, and his body was shaking feverishly from the exertion of holding it in, but in spite of it all, somehow, he couldn’t stop going.

Nor could he assuage the far more familiar buildup of tension in his balls.

_Fuck._

Why was he like this?

Arthas brought his hands up to cover his face, to cover the hot flush that only burned harder now that the deliriousness had passed and he truly registered the depravity of what he had done. Uther turned his eyes up to him expectantly, watching to see if he would apologise, or curse, or maybe even smack him for putting him in such a wanton state. The prospect of landing a blow across his cheek did occur to Arthas, and the desire to lash out almost crested - He only stopped himself because he didn’t want to seem like a child right now, having a tantrum because he had wet himself and didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it. This was in spite of being fully aware that that’s _exactly_ what he was.

The piss on the seat beneath him was cooling fast, and dripping into a puddle on the floor.

“Good boy,” Uther told him, quite unexpectedly. It was such a gut punch to hear praise from him now that Arthas choked. His tears came thicker, and faster, and he felt like he was being gutted by the lust that was surging in his body. How much of a mess must he look right now? How much worse could he get? Uther was looking at him so steadily, his eyes endless. The freckles on the bridge of his nose were visible beneath his faint flush even in the depths of middle age.

“Sir,” Arthas moaned, and it was a plea, and an apology, and a prayer all at once. Whatever god was listening must’ve heard him, though, because Uther responded with a lusty keen and moved his hands to undo Arthas’ pants. He didn’t seem bothered, not even phased, by the wetness of his underwear or by the piss spilling over the seat. His palm, broad and warm and roughened by the carpentry he busied himself with from time to time, slipped inside the leg of Arthas’ boxer briefs. He tugged his stiff cock out over the top of his underwear – a lewd maneuver, made worse by the way the wet waistband stuck to his flesh. Arthas whimpered softly, head tipping back, when Uther began to stroke.

The relief was almost as great as the relief of voiding his bladder. Uther’s grip was firmer than his own, and without lotion there was the distant tingle of too-much-friction even though Arthas was wet, and precome was dripping freely from the tip of his dick. He bit back a louder sound of pleasure, as Uther built his pace. It was not a slow and languid tease that Uther was giving him – the man jerked him off with the obvious goal of finishing him as fast as possible. Even in his hazy state, Arthas could tell it wasn’t because he didn’t want to be doing this. In fact, Arthas was quite convinced that Uther wanted it more than anything, and his prediction was only confirmed when Uther thumbed the circumcision scar a short distance below his cock head.

“Be a good boy and come for me,” He said, and his voice waivered under the strain of his desire.

Arthas’ grip on the edge of his seat tightened. The muscles in his lower body wound up. He finished with a deep, aching throb, and tingles spread to the very tips of his fingers and his toes.

Arthas slumped in the chair, breathing heavily, but his first coherent thought after the fact was _god,_ he felt so good. His body felt light, his breath felt thin, and it rushed into his lungs with a dizzying ease that left him feeling groggy even as he settled back into himself. It was the sound of Uther standing upright that grounded him again. He rolled his head around, and watched Uther move across the room to the sink and wash away the mess on the back of his hand. Arthas sat upright and groaned when he realized how much of a puddle he was sitting in. There was come spattered all up the front of his t-shirt.

“You can go shower if you want,” Uther offered. “I can clean up.”

“Do you want me to-“ Arthas gestured to the front of Uther’s tidy tan pants, which were obviously tented in the front.

“No,” He replied, his voice tempered. Honest. “Go have a shower. I will bring you a change of clothes.”

Arthas sat there for a moment, covered in piss and come, and regarded him. He looked just as composed as ever, just as stern and distantly handsome. How old even _was_ Uther, anyway? Arthas wasn’t sure – a part of him still saw him as he did when he was much, much younger, when Arthas was in kindergarten and Uther had still been redheaded and fresh faced, albeit so grievously severe.

Rather than argue, or even try and analyze how Uther was processing any of this, Arthas did exactly as he was told.

* * *

Arthas didn’t like wearing Uther’s jeans. They were too big for him, and they were cut too straight, and the bottoms bunched like creased bedsheets around his ankles. His t-shirt, though, was soft, and comfortable. The argyle sweater he wore to keep his arms warm smelled like tobacco and cedar and green oakmoss – the same sweet deepness of Uther’s cologne. Feeling infinitely better, after his shower, Arthas stopped by the laundry on the way out of the bathroom to dump his dirty clothing into the washing machine. He returned to the kitchen, his mind far more settled, and winced in embarrassment to see that the floor and chair were clean as though nothing had even happened. The books and papers that had been sprawled over the table were tidied away. Uther, looking as placid and in-control as ever, was starting to cook dinner on the stovetop – the scent of frying garlic made Arthas’ mouth water.

“I put the pants and stuff in the laundry,” Arthas told him, voice raising so as to make himself heard over the drone of the rangehood. “If you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine.” Uther said, glancing to regard him, and his gaze faltered for a moment when he saw how much slighter Arthas must have looked in his clothing. Arthas wasn’t a particularly small man, but Uther always did make him feel tiny. This wasn’t a terrible thing, but from time to time it did feel a little... strange.

“I’ll make sure your stuff is dry before you have to go home,” He said absently, and Arthas nodded.

“Here.” Uther shook himself, and gestured to a mug sitting on the countertop. Arthas arched his eyebrows as he leaned closer, to inspect the contents.

It was a coffee. Freshly made, with sugar and cream in the usual way that Arthas tended to take it. There were two marshmallows floating on top, one white and one pink, and Arthas could tell immediately that this was a peace offering. A small request for a truce, made in a moment of softness. Affection. Regret?

Arthas was still pretty embarrassed, but he thought as he picked up his coffee and tasted it that he didn’t actually regret a thing.


End file.
